Double Trouble (15 page)

A shudder danced over my flesh at the raw need in his voice, but I smiled down at him all the same. The kid was hurting, you could see it in his face. I had the weird urge to ruffle his hair. “What’s up, Johnny?”

His gaze flicked to the front lawn, then back to me. “I don’t understand...”

I sighed, then crouched down beside him. He watched me carefully. “None of us understand, kiddo. Maybe not even your mom. But she’ll turn up, she loves you guys too much to do otherwise.” I thought that was a pretty good bit of bull, but he didn’t look reassured.

“But we’ll be gone. If Dad sells the house, she’ll come back and we won’t be here.” His voice rose slightly. “What if she can’t find us? What if she tries to come back and can’t find us?”

“Oh, don’t be a dope,” I said, my tone more teasing that his brother’s had been. “She’ll call me and I’ll tell her where you are. Or she’ll call your grandpa. No biggie.”

He chewed on his bottom lip, studying me with all his father’s intensity. “Do you really think she’ll be back?”

I held his gaze. “Yes. I’m sure of it.”

She’d come for her half of whatever was left if nothing else, but I didn’t tell the kid that hard little reality. Maybe she’d come back for the kids. It wouldn’t hurt for him to believe it, even if I wasn’t going to bet on it.

He smiled then, a thin smile, thanked me politely, then headed for the kitchen. God damn Marcia, I thought with a vengeance as I followed him, then wondered whether my sister knew or cared what wounds she had left behind her.

“Is Auntie Maralys coming fishing with us?” Jimmy asked with a pointed glance in my direction.

Before I could say anything, James shook his head. “You don’t want her to come.” He dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “She’ll eat all the bait.”

“I heard that!” I cried, even as the boys made faces and groaned. I shook a finger at James, liking very much how his eyes were sparkling. “You better watch it. You keep saying stuff like that and someone’s going to think you have a sense of humor.”

* * *

The realtor worked that Sunday afternoon like nobody’s business. I was impressed by how many couples she trotted through that house after the fishing expedition had departed. I hung out in the kitchen, drank fierce tea, and house-sat. She chirped the house’s assets by rote, danced up and down those stairs, and flicked on every single light in the place despite the relentless sunlight.

James was dropping the threesome off with his cell phone at an undisclosed Truly Awesome Fishing Place. It wasn’t long before he sauntered back down the hall and tossed his keys on the counter.

“Couple Number Six,” I said and took a glug of tea. “Got some kind of fire sale on here?”

“I told her I’d sell for twenty-five thousand less if it closed in two weeks.”

“She’ll push you to thirty.”

“I know.” He poured a cup of tea, saluted the passing threesome with it, sipped and grimaced. “This is terrible!”

“Just the way Dad likes it. Strong enough to walk on, he says.”

“Strong enough to peel the lining from your stomach.” He stared at me, incredulous. “You’re actually drinking it.”

“It’s an acquired taste.”

“Like your dad?”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s pretty tough on you, but you keep helping him out. I’ve never heard you two go at it before.”

“That was nothing.” I dumped my tea down the drain, unprepared to confess anything more than that. “So, when should Maralys’ limousine service be back?”

“Why don’t you stay?”

“Because I might go insane in this bucolic suburbia in the next four hours.” I was cranky and James had the misfortune to be within range. “Why do people live like this anyhow?”

James smiled, clearly untroubled by my mood. “What’s wrong with it? I always thought it was kind of nice. Peaceful.”

“Complacent, more like. Smug. Is this the American dream? It’s frightening that anyone could aspire to live like this.”

“Why?”

“I can’t imagine anything more sad than an eighteen-year-old, flush with possibilities and youth, clasping hand to bosom and declaring that he or she wants nothing other than a golden retriever and a riding lawn mower, 4 bedrooms and 2-and-a-half baths.”

James looked bemused. “Do you insult everything, Maralys, or just what you don’t have?”

I ignored his question. “Did
you
dream of this?”

He looked away, playing evasive, and I was more interested in his answer than I wanted him to know. “You could say that I’m here because of a dream.”

I was disgusted. “That’s sad. In fact, that’s pathetic. I’ll send you a sympathy card. The world was your oyster and you dreamed of
this
.”

He gave me a sly glance. “I didn’t say I dreamed of this.”

Oh, lawyer games. I was wishing for the Latin. “You more or less did.”

“But not exactly.” James smiled a little and my heart skipped a beat. Oh mousie, I know how it feels to be toyed with. “It doesn’t say anywhere that I got my dream.” He pushed away from the counter, but I was right behind him.

“Did you or did you not dream of whiling away those golden years, playing golf and wearing chinos?”

“What’s wrong with chinos?”

I shuddered. “They’re unsexy. Almost as unsexy as golf clothes. Really. If God wanted a scheme to keep Americans from reproducing, golf clothes and chinos would be critical ingredients.”

James chuckled. “Golf as contraceptive.”

“Think about it. The true fiends play on weekend mornings, when they could be doing other procreative things, and watch it on television on weekend afternoons.”

“Also good times for procreative things.” James had a definite gleam in his eye, but I wasn’t going to drop the subject and let him know that I had noticed.

“It’s the only sport that fat men can play well.”

“Ah, there’s that unsexy factor again.”

“Exactly. And it’s the only sport that seems to require men to look like dorks.”

“Chinos?”

“Or baggy shorts with knee socks. All those goofy colors and patterns. Argyle. The single glove syndrome.” I shuddered elaborately. “Go ahead, make my day. Tell me that you love golf.”

James grinned. “Never played. I’m beginning to be glad of that.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“That I wouldn’t want you to think that I’m unsexy. Obviously.”

James dipped his head and scored a kiss before I knew what he was up to. It was quick but effective, leaving me simmering in my socks. He lifted his head just slightly, whispering as the sound of the realtor’s patter carried from the basement stairs. “Because I think that you are very sexy, Maralys O’Reilly.”

Oh, danger, danger. I backed away, one hand up in a paltry defense. “Don’t confuse me with my sister. Don’t even go there, mister.”

James’ smile broadened and he flicked an appreciative gaze over me. “That’s not likely to happen.” He leaned back against the wall, arms folded across his chest as he watched me. “So, what should kids dream of?”

I waved my hands grateful for the distraction and tried to pretend that his kiss had left me cold. “Fame. Fortune. Glory. Dreams shouldn’t be about what you can buy—they should be about what mark you leave in the world. Compared to changing someone’s perspective or making the world a better place, a two door silver sport coupe is a pretty paltry substitute.”

“And your dream would be?”

I was tempted to blow James off, just because he looked as if he already knew the answer. But I knew he didn’t have it right and it was too tempting to surprise him. I lifted my chin. “Digging out the truth and setting it loose.”

James looked skeptical. “You dreamed of that as a teenager?”

“Don’t be stupid. I dreamed of fame, fortune, a two door silver sport coupe and the whole materialistic enchilada. Truth is a distant second to that grand prize package, but it will have to do.”

James arched a brow. “No riding lawnmower?”

“Never. I never even wanted a lawn.”

He chuckled, then stepped away, catching my hand in his as the realtor and company appeared on the stairs. “Come on, I’d like your advice on something.”

“Wait a minute.” I realized belatedly that he had redirected the conversation. “You didn’t tell me what you dreamed of.”

“It doesn’t matter. Not now, anyhow.”

“And what is that supposed to mean?”

James pivoted on the landing and looked me straight in the eye. “That I’m not going to tell you,” he said firmly. “Duh, as the boys would say. Now, come on.” He gave my fingers a squeeze, then headed for the master bedroom, me in tow.

I put on the brakes as soon as I saw his destination. This particular goal was easy to name. “Oh no. I’m not going in there.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you have a nastily suspicious mind? I just want you to see something.”

“Oh, there’s a great line.” I folded my arms across my chest and parked in the upstairs foyer. “Come meet Mr. Wiggly. Like I haven’t heard that one before. Got an etchings collection, too?”

James laughed and the change in his expression nearly made me change my mind. “I’m not nearly that devious, but if you insist...”

I swatted him, to no visible effect.

He continued on without me, knowing damn well that I’d be curious enough to follow. I lingered as long as I could, then peeked. To my surprise, he was nowhere near the bed.

Maybe that was to my disappointment. The realtor was in the house somewhere—the possibility of discovery adds a certain spice, don’t you think?

But James had other, more pragmatic, things on his mind. He had flung open one closet door and was staring at its contents. It was the walk-in closet that my sister used, but you’d only know how big it was if you’d been there before. Now, it was full to the doors with boxes and bags. They were literally stacked to the ceiling. Three tumbled out when he opened the door and, oh yes, my need to know got the better of me.

I followed him into the room and was impressed. My sister had redefined the verb “to shop”.

----

Subject
: with friends like this

Dear Aunt Mary -

I’m getting married to the greatest guy but my pals aren’t impressed. Some of them won’t even come to the wedding! Okay, he’s divorced and okay, I met him when he was still married, but why can’t they be happy for me? I might not be the First, but I’ll be the Last.

sad bride

----

Subject
: re: with friends like this

Dear blinded Bride -

Puh-leese! Face the fact that you may be neither First nor Last, but just NEXT.

Your friends may know - or see - something that you don’t. Sure, you could be headed for sunshine and happiness 4ever, but people are creatures of habit. Changing partners doesn’t change the steps to a guy’s favorite dance.

Aunt Mary

***

Uncertain? Confused? Ask Aunt Mary!

Your one stop shop for netiquette and advice:

http://www.ask-aunt-mary.com

----

I
stopped beside James, got a good waft of his skin and decided that there is nothing sexier than a man barefoot in beaten-up old loafers. “What
is
all of that?”

James shrugged. “I found it this morning when I showed the realtor around the house.” He eyed it with something that could have been awe, or could have been disgust. “She says it’s got to go to show the house to advantage. This closet is big, which I’m told is a great asset.”

I picked up one of the fallen boxes and opened it. Brand new shoes. They were nice Italian leather pumps and absolutely unworn. Not my taste, too conservative, but I can appreciate quality when I see it.

The next box held a jacket and skirt, fully lined, beautifully made, price tag still hanging on the cuff. The next one had the receipt for the silk blouse still in the box alongside it.

Well, here was the evidence. You heard about women shopping just to hoard things, though my sister had had a better reason.

“The shopping spree,” I concluded, looking up at James.

“I’m thinking so.” He nodded ruefully. “The closet must be full of it. Do you think a charity would pick it up?”

“Are you nuts?”

“I thought you would approve of me giving it to charity...”

“All of this? That would be insane. It’s brand new. And you need cash, don’t you?”

James pinched the bridge of his nose. “Don’t remind me.”

“Then charity begins at home. Take it back.”

“What?” He looked truly horrified.

“Don’t you take things back?”

“No!”

“You can take things back to the stores,” I explained as if he was a slow child. “It’s called making a return. They give you your money back. Normal people do it all the time.”

“Not me.”

“Well, think about it. It’s all in the original packaging, it’s clean and unworn. Have them put the credit on the hottest cards.”

James narrowed his eyes, thinking as he considered the teetering packages. “If this whole closet is full -”

“- then you’ll wipe out a ton of that debt. Let’s find out.” I started digging, then cast him a considering glance. The man was innocent in so many ways of the world and I was feeling particularly helpful for some odd reason. Couldn’t have been that fleeting kiss, no sirree. “You do know the protocol of returning things, don’t you?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re not going to walk in there and say ‘my wife left me and I’m bringing back all of her stuff for credit’.”

James watched me warily. “Then what
am
I going to say?”

“You’re going to lie, obviously. You’re going to say that you bought this lovely blouse as a gift -” I shook the silk at him “- but your wife didn’t like it. No, she hated it.”

“Wrong size?”

“You can’t say that, because then they’ll want to exchange it for the right size. You can’t even say that it’s the wrong color, because for all you know, this blouse comes in sixteen delicious shades. No, you’ll say she loathes it. You’ll say it wasn’t what she really wanted, that what she really wanted was a Bolivian cockatiel.”

James seemed to be fighting an impulse to smile. “A Bolivian cockatiel?” He folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the wall, watching me as though I was some unpredictable, unusual and fascinating life form.